


honey, you're familiar (like my mirror years ago)

by aletterinthenameofsanity



Series: even if it costs my life (I won't stop loving you) [5]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Age Difference, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Character Study, F/M, Gender Role Reversal, Introspection, Love, Murder, Nightmares, Post-Canon, Psychological Trauma, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 10:16:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13738728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aletterinthenameofsanity/pseuds/aletterinthenameofsanity
Summary: “You are so strong,” Héctor says, and she doesn’t need him to say it- she knows she’s strong, she had to be in order for her family to survive- but it’s nice. By Dios, it makes something in her chest ache to hear Héctor acknowledge everything she had to do for their familia. “You always have been. When you chased me away-” He swallows. “You've always had to be strong, and for that I am sorry. If only I hadn't left-" His voice cracks, and her chest bones ache.The thing is, Imelda has heard Héctor call her strong before, but it hasn’t meant as much as it does now, after a century of having to be too strong.She has always been the strong one, the stubborn one, the cold one when necessary. Héctor is the heart of the family, the kindness, the compassion. He has always bent over backward to make others happy, because that is what made him happy. It is what made him feel fulfilled, useful, far more than any machismo ever could. It is what made her fall in love with him.Imelda and Héctor are the exact opposite of what should have worked, and they never tried to change each other.“Then we both are at fault,” she says, and it feels like a weight has been released from her chest.





	honey, you're familiar (like my mirror years ago)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "From Eden" by Hozier. 
> 
> This sad skeleton family gives me such *feelings* and I can't stop writing them. From the physical ache over the psychological trauma of soft, happy Héctor and his strong, stubborn wife Imelda to the urge to punch Ernesto De la Cruz in the cara de mierda, I can't help but get drawn in by this world. Here's another, drawn by comments and questions about Imelda.
> 
>  
> 
> (Also, I pretty much wrote this fic to the song "In A Week" by Hozier. It's really damn fitting.)

Imelda gasps awake from that same nightmare that has plagued her for a century- her waiting, and waiting, and waiting and all that came back to Santa Cecilia was a letter describing her husband's _pecados._

She awakens to an empty bed, as she did for years. Even after a century, she is still the young woman who prayed for her husband's return, knelt in the pews at church and begged for her husband's safety. She is still the woman who never remarried, despite her broken heart, who never gave her heart to a man save the one who broke it.

What a tragedy this became, both for her and Héctor. What they both had to suffer over the centuries- him, a death alone, and her, a life without the one she loves.

She sits up in her bed and shifts so that she’s leaning her spine against the headboard of her bed. She needs something to brace herself against, to support her century-old-skeleton. Right now, she feels so _old_ , so brittle.

Last night, she watched Héctor perform for the first time since he left (after all, she didn’t get to see him at the infamous _Un Poco Loco_ performance- she was too busy searching for Miguelito). It has been a century since she last saw his fingers trace the strings of a guitar, last seen his smile light up like that after a song was done.

When Imelda had died, she’d turned Héctor away from her doorstep. She hadn’t wanted to hear his lies, or worse, his truths- the _putas_ he’d fucked (no, Héctor had never been capable of _fucking_ , he’d only ever _made love,_ and she _hated_ that some other woman had gotten the respect and worship that her husband had given her), the songs of theirs he’d given to Ernesto, the way he’d _abandoned_ them-

And none of that, none of the decades of hate and hurt, had been necessary.

Imelda curls in on herself, pulling her knees up to her chest. Her metacarpals dig into her skeletal knees as anger fills her. She wants to scrape away all the hatred, all the resentment that still lingers in her. She doesn’t want to feel wrong, like all the suffering was her fault, because she knows, logically, that it _wasn’t._

So, instead, she thinks of the actual target of her rage. She wants to strangle Ernesto De la Cruz for what was stolen from them. He murdered Héctor, murdered their _familia._ He tore away everything that made them happy, left them nothing but lies and bitter words for ten _malditas_ decades.

“Mela, _querida_ ,” Héctor says from the door of the room, and she looks up to find her husband, blinking sleep from his eyes. He looks so concerned, so _young_. _Cincuenta años_ too young.

He's just a year younger than she is, but oh, how different they seem in age. He died at age 21, just barely an adult and a father. She lived for decades in the living world- he lived the same in the Land of the Dead, body stuck permanently in youth. He never aged, never gained wrinkles and callouses and sunspots. How his body must have been a reminder of all that he'd lost.

“Héctor,” she says, her voice a rasp, and gestures numbly at the bed beside her. He takes her motion for what it is- an invitation- and enters her room, feet padding softly. She notices his limp, just as she always has, both as shoemaker and wife. The pair of boots she made him contain a lifted insole in the left shoe that helps with his limp, cushioning his foot in a way that supports his body. He’s not wearing them now, as he obviously just came from his bed.

( _His_ bed, not theirs- it hasn’t been _theirs_ in a century. And though her emotions are _jodida_ , she’s pretty sure she wants it to be theirs again.)

He scoots up next to her in the bed, so that he is leaning against the headboard just like she is. He doesn’t touch her, but just his presence is enough to calm her, just like back when they were alive.

“ _Mi cariño_ ,” she says, once she has grasp well enough on this world, where he is here, _with her,_ “ _Lo siento mucho._ ”

He flinches next to her. “You have nothing to apologize for, _querida._ ”

“I turned you away,” she says, “All those years ago. I didn’t listen to you, when you begged me to. I just threw my _zapato_ at you and chased you away, screamed at you. I didn’t want to hear your words.”

Imelda stares down at their hands, bony fingers laced together. She hasn’t seen their hands together like this for a century- she barely remembers their final night together anymore. She remembers some things, for sure: the bright red of Héctor’s charro suit, the sound of his soft voice crooning that lullaby of his, the taste of his living, warm lips, the feeling of his scrawny chest under her hands.

(He had always been so beautiful, long fingers and bright eyes and wide smiles. She’d fallen in love with every stupid, _jodido_ detail about him. Even when she hated him, even when her nights spent praying for his safety turned into nights cursing his name, she remembered what she’d originally fallen in love with. She’d asked herself how she could have been so blind so as to fall for what were obviously lies.

And now? Now, she knows that everything about him was the honest truth.)

Imelda remembers beyond that, to their first night after the wedding, the night where they had made love for the first time. They had both been so hesitant, so unsure, but they loved each other. She had been ready to give herself to him, to submit as all wives were expected to, but Héctor had treated her with respect and love. He’d made sure that she’d enjoyed it as much as he had, been so gentle and comforting.

They’d been so young then, so full of hope and innocence.

And now? Now, they are fragile, and broken, and have no idea how to mend the divide between them.

“You are so strong,” he says, and she doesn’t need him to say it- she _knows_ she’s strong, she had to be in order for her family to survive- but it’s nice. By _Dios,_  it makes something in her chest ache to hear Héctor acknowledge everything she had to do for their _familia._ “You always have been. When you chased me away-” He swallows. “You've always had to be strong, and for that _I_ am sorry. If only I hadn't left-" His voice cracks, and her chest bones ache.

The thing is, Imelda has heard Héctor call her strong before, but it hasn’t meant as much as it does now, after a century of having to be _too_ strong.

She has always been the strong one, the stubborn one, the cold one when necessary. Héctor is the heart of the family, the kindness, the compassion. He has _always_ bent over backward to make others happy, because that is what made _him_ happy. It is what made him feel fulfilled, useful, far more than any _machismo_ ever could. It is what made her fall in love with him.

(Héctor left their house because he wanted to give them something he thought they should have. He left for Coco, and for Imelda herself, and just a bit for Ernesto, his _hermano maldito.)_

Imelda and Héctor are the exact _opposite_ of what should have worked, as they were told by the society they lived in, and they never tried to change each other.

“Then we both are at fault,” she says, and it feels like a weight has been released from her chest. If they are both at fault, and they both admit it, then this is a flaw they both have. This is a failure they can weather _together._

“But most of all, it is _Ernesto_ who is at fault,” Héctor says, and his voice takes on a dangerous tone she doesn’t recognize at first. When she recognizes it, a chill runs down her spine.

She has never seen Héctor truly, properly angry. That has always been her role- get angry, lash out, protect their family. Héctor has always been happy. He has always been kind. She used to tease him that he was too forgiving for his own good.

Now, though- his expression darkens. His teeth grit, his eyes narrow, and his bones clench.

She imagines what Héctor’s expression looked like when he found out that Ernesto murdered him, and hatred unlike any she has ever felt fills her. That someone could turn sweet, happy Héctor into a creature of anger- it is a tragedy that cannot be undone.

 _He murdered you,_ Imelda wants to say, _That_ cabron _murdered you, Héctor. Your_ mejor amigo _killed you in cold blood,_ mi amor, _ripped away_ everything _you loved like it was_ nothing _compared to what_ he _wanted._

“I know,” she says instead, voice raw, and it feels like _thank you._

(She knows that Héctor can translate her words. Even after all these years, he still can read her so well.)

For a moment, all that is between them is silence. He doesn’t touch her, doesn’t even seek to hug her.

During the years they were married, he was always the one who initiated affection, who hugged and kissed and sang _I love yous_ from gardens and bedrooms and kitchens. He was the one who always reached out to hold her hand, who was always far more free with his love and affection.

Over the past two months, he hasn’t initiated a single gesture of affection. He’s waited for her to make the first movement, allowed her to make the decisions. Even when he brought her flowers, he made sure to keep a respectable distance between their bodies. He’s been waiting for her to say those three fateful words first, to initiate the gestures of love that she always used to enjoy coming from him.

Just a few minutes ago, he stayed at her door until she gestured him in. And now, she wants to do the same for him as he has always done for her.

Imelda turns and pulls him close, hugs him tight like he always did to her. He lets out a small sound of surprise but soon sinks into her embrace, bones leaning into hers.

She holds this fragile, beautiful man in her arms, feeling the brittleness of his bones beneath her hands. He still doesn’t wear a shirt to bed, even after all these years, and his ribs are clear to see.

A strange, desperate sound rattles out of Héctor’s throat, and his fingers press into her shoulder blades. For the first time since...well...she’s known him, even back in the land of the living, he breaks down. He cries into her shoulder, great heaving sobs shaking his ribs. His bones creak in relief and he clutches at her like a dying man, or, more accurately, a Fading one.

The words _I love you_ rise to her mouth, but don’t pass her lips. She has only said them to Héctor once in the time since their last night together- and that was whispered against his unconscious forehead as he was Fading.

Imelda squares her jaw. She can do this. She can be the warm one, the comforting one, when her husband cannot.

 _“Te amaré siempre,_  Héctor,” she says quietly, plainly. Straightforward, just as she always has been, but kind. They have both been through so much- they need this.

 _“Tambien te amo, querida,_ ” Héctor whispers back, and maybe, now, they can begin to be married again. They can help each other, bring their own strength to each other. They have never sought to change each other, fell in love with each other for all of the reasons that they shouldn’t have admired each other for. Imelda can be warm, be happy, be soft with Héctor, and he can be stiff, be angry, be stubborn with her. They compliment each other. They make each other better.

They forgive each other, and they still love each other- that will be enough for now.


End file.
